Richard shook his head.

“He couldn’t have, Mr. Carlyle; I have said so all along.  But about Levison.  If I find him to be the man Thorn, what steps can then be taken?”

“That’s the difficulty,” said Mr. Carlyle.

“Who will set it agoing.  Who will move in it?”

“You must, Richard.”

“I!” uttered Richard Hare, in consternation.  “I move in it!”

“You, yourself.  Who else is there?  I have been thinking it well over, and can hit upon no one.”

“Why, won’t you take it upon yourself, Mr. Carlyle?”

“No.  Being Levison,” was the answer.

“Curse him!” impetuously retorted Richard.  “Curse him doubly if he be the double villain.  But why should you scruple Mr. Carlyle?  Most men, wronged as you have been, would leap at the opportunity for revenge.”

“For the crime perpetrated upon Hallijohn I would pursue him to the scaffold.  For my own wrong, no.  But the remaining negative has cost me something.  Many a time, since this appearance of his at West Lynne, have I been obliged to lay violent control upon myself, or I should have horsewhipped him within an ace of his life.”

“If you horsewhipped him to death he would only meet his deserts.”

“I leave him to a higher retribution—­to One who says, ’Vengeance is mine.’  I believe him to be guilty of the murder but if the uplifting of my finger would send him to his disgraceful death, I would tie down my hand rather than lift it, for I could not, in my own mind, separate the man from the injury.  Though I might ostensibly pursue him as the destroyer of Hallijohn, to me he would appear ever as the destroyer of another, and the world, always charitable, would congratulate Mr. Carlyle upon gratifying his revenge.  I stir in it not, Richard.”

“Couldn’t Barbara?” pleaded Richard.

Barbara was standing with her arm entwined within her husband’s, and Mr. Carlyle looked down as he answered,—­

“Barbara is my wife.”

It was a sufficient answer.

“Then the thing’s again at an end,” said Richard, gloomily, “and I must give up hope of ever being cleared.”

“By no means,” said Mr. Carlyle.  “The one who ought to act in this is your father, Richard; but we know he will not.  Your mother cannot.  She has neither health nor energy for it; and if she had a full supply of both, she would not dare to brave her husband and use them in the cause.  My hands are tied; Barbara’s equally so, as part of me.  There only remains yourself.”

“And what can I do?” wailed poor Dick.  “If your hands are tied, I’m sure my whole body is, speaking in comparison; hands, and legs, and neck.  It’s in jeopardy, that is, every hour.”

“Your acting in this affair need not put it any the more in jeopardy.  You must stay in the neighborhood for a few days—­”

“I dare not,” interposed Richard, in a fright.  “Stay in the neighborhood for a few days!  No; that I never may.”